Hemlock
by Cailin na hEireann
Summary: Douglas Richardson is a man with many secrets. So, apparently, is Martin Crieff.


**A/N Cabin Pressure, like most things in life, does not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.**

Douglas Richardson is a man with many secrets.

Most of them are secrets simply because they're not worth the telling; releasing them to general knowledge won't get him any favours, won't benefit him in some way (which, as he freely and proudly admits, is the motivation for most of his actions).

However, he likes to think there are some places in which he's the most honest man alive. MJN, for instance. A job is a job, unfortunately, and he can't afford to lose this one. Not after the disaster with Air England.

So when Arthur or Carolyn or Martin or whomever else asks him some inane question about his personal life or otherwise, he tries to answer truthfully. Such as the time Martin asked him about his wife, for example. He answered that as well as he could. Even when it meant revealing that his wife was having an affair – not the easiest thing to admit.

Douglas doesn't hide his opinions. He doesn't hide his ideas, or his complaints.

And as any of his colleagues will tell you, all three fall into the same category and run as follows:

1) Arthur is an imbecile

2) Carolyn is not

3) Martin is…. Martin.

'Why do I even bother trying?!' Martin snarls, just before he grabs his jacket from the door hook, picks up his tattered shoulder bag and slams the door behind him. He's having a sulk, naturally, because Douglas isn't afraid to tell him what he thinks of him, and does so as often as the opportunity presents itself. Which it just so happened to after that needlessly life-threatening plunge Martin called a landing.

'Oh, _Douglas_,' Carolyn sighs, fishing for her car keys in her handbag. 'How can you expect him to start taking your advice unless you start taking it yourself?'

For some reason, this comment gets on Douglas' nerves. He bristles. 'And what would _that_ be, pray?'

The mean-spirited old woman retrieves her keys with satisfaction and drags Arthur away from where he's staring out the window. Counting clouds, probably.

She reaches the door, opens it, and as if as an afterthought, calls back,

'Captains don't have to listen to anyone. Least of all their First Officers.'

With a wink, she disappears. Douglas is left standing alone in an aeroplane hangar with nothing but the plane in question for company, and it's _bloody annoying_.

The following Thursday they fly to Kyoto and back. It's a long, _long _flight, and by the end of it, even Arthur's unshakable nerves are frayed. All four of them are snappish, tense and exhausted, and none more so than Douglas.

Inside the flight deck, the atmosphere is suffocating. Douglas slumps wearily in the co-pilot's chair and tries to ignore the hard line of Martin's shoulders next to him. Martin is, of course, sitting bolt upright in his seat, hands steady and flitting between the controls as if he hasn't been steering an aircraft for most of a twelve-hour flight. Douglas knows he should probably feel guilty for letting the younger man do all the work, but he really can't be bothered at this stage. Practise makes perfect, after all. Maybe even for one such as Captain Martin Crieff. God knows he needs it more than Douglas does.

'So,' Douglas tries, voice scratchy from tiredness. 'Fairy tales you can relate to. You first.'

Martin is silent for a few moments, and then mutters, 'Seriously? Not your best, Douglas.'

Douglas sighs. 'I know. Brain's too lethargic to come up with something else. I'm afraid we're going to have to make do.'

For several moments, all he hears in response is the whirr and click of Gerti trying her hardest to keep herself airborne. And then,

'Hansel and Gretel, I suppose.'

'And why, may I ask?'

'Um,' Martin squirms uncomfortably. 'Always making the wrong decisions. Letting bad luck get me into sticky situations.'

'Quite,' Douglas smiles, amused. 'Sometimes literally, in fact. Remember that time you knocked over the container of horse's – '

'Yes, yes, no need to remind me!' Martin snaps. 'Go on then, you think of one.'

Douglas ponders this for a minute or two, feeling his mood gradually lighten. Word Games with Martin always seem to cheer him up, for some inexplicable reason.

Probably because he always wins, at a wild guess.

Still grinning, Douglas says, 'All right, then. That Prince in Rapunzel.'

'And why?' Martin asks. Douglas can hear a note of amusement in his own voice.

'Well,' he says, relaxing further into the co-pilot's seat. 'Always running after the ladies. Climbing up and up until there's nowhere left to go, and realising I'm still not anywhere near as high as I need to be.'

He snaps his mouth shut in horror. What the hell had he said that for?!

Martin is unnervingly quiet for several seconds. 'But getting there in the end, right?'

'No. Not really. Getting cut loose and falling back to the starting point, I suppose.'

'Oh yeah,' Martin mumbles. 'Forgot about that part.'

Silence.

'Sleeping Beauty.'

For a moment, Douglas sits without responding. He's trying to figure out why Martin would use that one, but unfortunately to no avail. It seems like a pretty random choice, given it has to be something Martin could relate to.

'Oh, I see,' he smirks after a moment. 'Waiting for the handsome prince to come and wake you up or something, hmmm? Didn't know you were _that _desperate, Martin. Would've thought a young airline captain wouldn't be rejected that many times, but then, here you are, proving me wrong as always.'

He snaps his mouth shut again, this time for a completely different reason.

_Too far, Richardson. That was a low blow, and you know it._

'Er… Martin, I – '

'Control, Golf Echo Romeo Tango India requesting clearance for landing. Am approaching the runway from the south-east, ETA three minutes.'

'Golf Echo Romeo, clearance for landing granted. Continue approach, hangar B is ready and waiting for you. Over.'

Martin ends the line.

_Oh, no. What have I done? He's usually shouting by this stage. You've really done it this time, Douglas._

Silence.

'Douglas, pre-landing controls check, whenever you're ready.'

'Um. Um, all right, well…'

It's the first time Douglas has stammered in years.

Carolyn grabs Douglas by the lapels of his shirt and presses him into the wall.

'What have you done to him? Hmm?'

He's startled and a little intimidated by the fierceness of her expression as she leans into his personal space angrily.

'I've no idea what you're talking about, Carolyn.'

'Oh, yes you do. You know _exactly _what I'm talking about, don't you? Now, I'm giving you a chance here. Tell me what you said to Martin within the next ten seconds, and I won't sack you on the spot.'

_Mother of God, what's gotten into her?_

'Carolyn. What does or does not upset Martin on an annoyingly frequent basis is no concern of mine. If he wants to take offense at something I say, then that's his business.'

She stares at him, and it takes several moments before she says, slowly, 'Douglas Richardson. Listen to me right now. I am 64 years old. I am not a fool. I know the way you men's minds work. I'll also have you know that however much I complain about Martin Crieff and his piloting skills, or lack thereof, you would do well to remember that he is a far better person than you.'

She leans in closer. 'Now, I want you to follow that boy and apologise for whatever it is you said. Am I clear?'

He swallows. For some reason, his throat has gone all dry.

'Yes, Carolyn.'

He drums his fingers irritably on the wheel of his Lexus. He's been stuck in the same spot in traffic for about an hour, it seems, and Martin's not answering his calls.

And he can even see him, for Christ's sake! Just five cars down in that ridiculous van of his, waiting patiently for the lights to turn green. Bastard.

He sighs and reaches into the glove compartment, drawing out a Jelly Baby and chewing on it angrily.

Goddamn it. Goddamn traffic, goddamn Carolyn. Goddamn Martin.

He gets himself another Jelly Baby and settles in for a long and boring wait.

Finally escaping the swarm of traffic, Douglas decides to stalk Martin's van across the city until Martin either stops or breaks down. Both possibilities stand a fair chance, Martin's van being what it is.

Surprisingly enough, it's the former that happens first.

_Fitton Regional Hospital? What the hell….?_

Douglas frowns to himself as he steers the van into the nearest parking space, whilst simultaneously craning his neck to keep Martin's retreating figure in his line of sight.

Even if he weren't, though, the younger man's destination is pretty clear.

_Jesus Christ, is there something wrong with him? Why does he need to check himself into a hospital?_

Sliding out of the Lexus quickly, he stuffs the keys in his pocket and jogs through the sliding doors of the entryway.

And _instantly_ gets lost.

Though he would later refuse to admit it (even to himself), Douglas spends the next hour and a half wandering through endless hospital corridors with absolutely no idea of where he is. Even more embarrassingly, he's mistaken for an escaped patient _twice_, and has to insist several times to the flustered nurses that he's not actually supposed to be in one of the wards before they let him go.

He trudges grumpily through the hallways, feet aching, patience dwindling. Where the hell is Martin? He could literally be _anywhere_ in this God-forsaken place, and Douglas would never know.

The above statement is perfectly true, of course, so it's quite by chance that Douglas rounds yet another whitewashed corridor and finds himself looking at Martin Crieff.

Perched on a chair next to a hospital bed and apparently reading to the elderly patient who's lying there.

Douglas pauses mid-stride, slightly thrown off-course.

'…_Adieu, adieu. My plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hillside and now 'tis buried deep in the next valley glades. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music. Do I wake, or sleep?'_

Reading… Ode to a Nightingale. Naturally.

The elderly woman grips Martin's hand tightly and wheezes out something faint. Douglas doesn't catch it, but Martin replies gently,

'Thank you, Mrs Brennan. But you flatter me; I don't think professional radio work would really be my thing, 'lovely voice' or not.'

The lady chuckles with difficulty, and then tugs him down until Martin is close enough to press a kiss to her weathered old cheek. He murmurs something quietly into her ear, gives her hand one last squeeze, and then lets go.

Douglas watches in silence as Martin walks to the end of the corridor and grabs his jacket from the hook on the back of the door. He reaches down and picks up his tattered shoulder bag, turns to return the many waves being offered him by the entire ward, patients and nurses alike, and leaves through the open door.

It takes Douglas a few moments to begin following him.

He's barely outside the hospital's front door before Martin, a few metres ahead of him, suddenly stops dead and whirls around to face him. His expression is murderous.

'Just what the _fuck _do you think you're doing?'

Douglas stops too, off-guard and painfully aware of it.

'Martin, I – '

'So it's not enough for you to dog my every waking moment when we're in the flight deck. Now, apparently, you have to insert yourself into the rest of my life too?!'

'First of all, Martin, I should sincerely hope that every moment in the flight deck _is _a waking one; that's really quite imperative. Secondly, by rest of your life outside MJN, you mean… what, exactly?'

'DOUGLAS!'

'Oh all right, all right. I'm sorry.'

'Really?' Martin fumes, crossing his arms and tapping a foot angrily. 'For what?'

'Everything. I'm sorry for saying that to you on the plane, and I'm sorry for making fun of you just now. It was rude of me, and completely unacceptable. I apologise profusely.'

Martin let out a short, sharp laugh. 'Well, excuse me if I'm not convinced.'

He turns and stalks away towards his van.

As luck would have it, it doesn't start when Martin furiously clambers in and twists the keys with a vicious turn of his wrist. Douglas watches and struggles to contain his amusement as Martin's intended dramatic exit fails quite spectacularly, and Martin is left to hang his head and get out of the van again.

'I need a lift home. You're giving it to me.'

His expression is still angry and he seems to think himself justified in his demand, so Douglas concedes and opens the passenger door of the Lexus for him. Martin gets in without a word in his direction.

They drive for several tense minutes before Douglas works up the courage to say,

'Mind if I ask what you were doing back there?'

Martin's stony stare lets Douglas know not to expect an answer any time soon, so he sighs and concentrates on the road. Maybe some other day, when Martin isn't in such a bad mood with him.

He doesn't expect Martin to grant him a response several seconds later.

'Volunteering. With the long-term patients.'

Douglas waits, and then asks, 'Why?'

'Because no one else ever does,' Martin sighs, long fingers twisting anxiously with the end of his sleeve.

'You're lying.'

Martin stares at him in outrage for a moment, but then rolls his eyes and slumps in his seat.

'How did you know?'

'Well,' Douglas muses, 'You were fidgeting with your sleeve. A nervous habit of yours. You never do it unless you're stressed, or under pressure. Ergo, you were lying.'

Martin sighs, but Douglas notices (with a tiny smile of his own) that one corner of his mouth twitches. 'Right you are. You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?'

'Indeed.' Douglas smiles, and is secretly delighted when he receives a hesitant one in reply.

He waits for several more moments, and then adds, 'Go on, tell me the real reason.'

Martin snorts. 'Fine, you bastard. I volunteer at the hospital because I know what it feels like to wake up every morning in a bed like that, in a room full of people coughing and wheezing and dying all around you, and knowing that even _that_ could be taken away from you at any moment, and you just won't wake up at all.'

Douglas has to concentrate on the road to keep a sudden lump from forming in his throat.

'So, you were…?'

Martin smiles. 'Yes. I was diagnosed with lymphoblastic leukaemia when I was eleven, and spent about half of my adolescence in a horrible cold bed like those ones, waiting for my parents and brother and sister to get time off to come visit me. It wasn't even a _nice _hospital; they pushed my bed right up into some dingy little corner, so I couldn't look out the window and watch the aeroplanes.'

For some reason, the image of a little Martin Crieff confined in a hospital bed, alone, and trying to move close enough to the window so that he could at least watch his beloved planes pass on overhead without him, strikes Douglas hard. He feels the lump in the back of his throat grow in intensity, and tries not to give any outward appearance of it.

Martin seems to notice anyway; he's far more observant that Douglas gives him credit for. He simply smiles and continues:

'So when I finally got out of there, after one close call with a month-long coma, (_Sleeping Beauty, Douglas thinks_) that they didn't see me getting through, I decided I would volunteer at the same hospital for as long as I could. Which is quite long, funnily enough.' He laughs softly. 'I've been going there for years and years now. Everyone knows me there. I like it.'

Douglas watches the car in front of them do an illegal red light. 'And you read to them? And let them hold your hand like that? Why?'

Martin thinks for a moment, and they listen to the blare of horns and multitude of sounds swell around them like a storm, safe in their own piece of quiet and stillness.

'I read to them because they shouldn't have to hear nothing but PA announcements and the nurses talking all the time…. and I hold their hands because it's easier for them to let go that way.'

Douglas nods like he understands, and switches lanes in silence.

Life goes on much the same as usual. Their next scheduled flight is to the Canaries, and everyone is in a happy mood when they turn up at the airfield.

Douglas sees Martin smiling to himself and says, 'Does anything in particular have you grinning like that?'

'Oh,' Martin murmurs. 'Nothing much. Mrs Brennan passed away this morning.'

He tilts his head up towards the sun, closing his eyes for a moment and basking in the warmth as they gain altitude. 'Nice day for it, wouldn't you agree?'

One last secret Douglas will never admit to anyone:

He thinks that he will remember that moment for the rest of his life.

_FINIS_

**A/N**

**For those of you who haven't heard the audio clip of Benedict Cumberbatch reading 'Ode To A Nightingale' by John Keats, then what the hell are you doing reading this piece of crap?! GO FORTH AND LOOK IT UP ON YOUTUBE IMMEDIATELY.**

**Anyway. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, feel free to review if the urge strikes you. :D**

**XXX**


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